On Yer' Bike
by Michael Franklin
George was
cycling from his home in Islington to visit the
Southwark offices of the SLUT Charity
– Spoken Language Usage Treatments. He had
taken a wrong turning somewhere, missed the
bridge he wanted, and was wondering where he was,
still on the north side of the river.
Reason for his
journey? He had found that, in advancing age, he
often heard words wrong and was misunderstood.
SLUT might be able to steer him in the right
direction with some expert advice and help.
He
sensed that he should be heading west again and
turned north away from Parliament Street to
reverse his direction. Facing him immediately was
a large double gate, and Police were everywhere.
As he approached the gate, four constables
stepped out in front of him – hands raised.
He dismounted
– puzzled. One shouted at him: “Buzz
off! Get out! You are not entitled to the Common's
entry on a bike.”
George was
offended. This was an impolite reception.
“Well – you do seem like a common
sentry. Seems to me you are just a low ranker
– keeping innocent people out of somewhere...”
One of the
officers produced a truncheon and grabbed hum by
the shoulder. “Describing us as low wankers
is not permitted. Never come near here again!”
“It's
daft!”
“Yes
– it's staffed – the Prime Minister and
many other politicians, And they need our
presence.”
Surprise.
“You give them presents?”
An inspector
stepped forward: “Yes we do. We give them
loyalty and unquestioned dedication. We
understand their commands and we must be obedient
to them. Allow yourself to understand –
realize! And it's at this gate that the
Prime Minister get's in to do his work –
joined by many others.”
George turned
away politely. Nothing more to be said. Real lies
described these officers perfectly – and
politicians all get sin as soon as they are
elected, usually fiddling their expenses and
travelling everywhere first class.
They should
all be Whipped.
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